


The Survivor

by Aini_NuFire



Series: Musketeer Dragon Riders [5]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dragons, Angst, Dragon Riders, Friendship, Gen, Hurt Aramis, Hurt/Comfort, Protective brothers, Torture, Waterboarding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:22:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22146370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aini_NuFire/pseuds/Aini_NuFire
Summary: When the Duke of Savoy comes to Paris, old wounds surrounding the massacre of twenty musketeers are reopened. And the truth coming to light might just shatter the lone survivor.
Series: Musketeer Dragon Riders [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1564573
Comments: 48
Kudos: 76





	1. Chapter 1

The palace grounds were busy with activity as servants erected a shaded dais and placed cushioned chairs underneath for the King and Queen. Banners on tall picks were spaced along the gravel drive to give the entrance some fanfare for their anticipated guest. The Duke of Savoy was coming to Paris to sign a treaty with France. And since the King despised the Duke, he also ordered some of his dragon riders to be present as a flaunting show of his own might.

Thus, Porthos, Aramis, and Athos—and d'Artagnan—were just arriving to take up their positions. Porthos's broken arm was nearly healed and he no longer had to keep it in a sling, though he needed to do some strength building on the muscles to get them back in shape. It was his left arm though, so he could easily tuck his hand into the fold of his coat to support it while they stood at attention.

He kind of wished the injury wasn't that mended yet; he would have liked to have been excused from parade duty. But since they weren't required to do much other than stand around looking prim in their uniforms and Musketeer blue cloaks, Treville had ordered him to go.

"I do so love parades," he muttered as they made their way to the edge of the carriage path. "Heat. Flies. Boredom." That last one was probably the worst.

"Isn't the Duke supposed to arrive within the hour?" d'Artagnan asked.

Porthos snorted. "We can take bets on that."

D'Artagnan's mouth quirked. "I'll pass."

He glanced over at Aramis who was silently moving Rhaego into position to sit behind the line of musketeers. The marksman's gaze seemed far away as he absently straightened the straps of Rhaego's saddle. The russet dragon nudged Aramis's shoulder with his nose, but his rider didn't react and instead moved to stand a few paces in front of his dragon at the edge of the drive, removing his hat to hold against his chest and staring out at nothing.

"What's wrong with him?" d'Artagnan asked.

Porthos's mouth turned down. "Anythin' to do with Savoy doesn't bring up happy memories."

D'Artagnan looked like he wanted to ask more, but the King and Queen were heading their way from the palace and it was time to get in position.

As Porthos nodded for Vrita to sit next to Rhaego, he pitched his voice low to the russet dragon. "You wanna help Aramis today? Be on yer best behavior."

He then moved to stand next to Aramis, Athos on his left, and then d'Artagnan. The musketeers' three dragons sat behind them, necks arched high and proud.

The King and Queen took their seats under the shaded awning. The Cardinal stood on King Louis's right, Captain Treville on the Queen's left, also under the shade. Nice for them. The captain's dragon was in attendance as well, standing to the side of the dais.

All together they made for a very regal—and imposing—picture for the Duke to arrive to.

And just as Porthos had suspected, the Duke did not arrive on time. Nor half an hour late. Nor even an hour after that. The late morning sun turned to early afternoon and beat down on the back of Porthos's neck. He was sure if he reached up to touch his black curls, they'd feel like the surface of a hearth. Not that he would break strict formation. Whether the Duke was here or not, they were still on parade duty.

Porthos cast a surreptitious glance at Aramis, whose gaze was slanted slightly to the side and down. Usually Porthos could count on him for some inane banter to keep things interesting, but today there was no sign of his good-humored friend. He flicked a look over his shoulder at Rhaego to make sure the dragon wasn't fidgeting, but thankfully the scamp seemed to be behaving for once.

"It's just like the Duke to be late," Louis began to complain. "He's always paraded himself as my equal, when Savoy is little more than a pimple on France's chin."

Now there was an image. At least the royals were sitting under the shade.

"A strategically important pimple, Sire," the Cardinal replied. "The vital defense against Spanish influence on our border."

"I'm aware of that, Cardinal," Louis said petulantly, then muttered, "So is the Duke. Otherwise he wouldn't…keep us standing around all day."

Eventually the firing of the guns up at the gate announced the Duke's arrival and a few moments after that a carriage came rattling down the long gravel path. Behind it was the Duke, riding a large black dragon of Savron's size. It was a rather imperial display, which Porthos was sure was the Duke's intent.

The carriage came to a stop and the Duke dismounted from his dragon to go open the door for the Duchess. Another finely dressed man exited after her, and the King and Queen descended from the dais to greet them.

"Victor," Louis said. "I trust your journey was comfortable?"

"Dreadful," the Duke replied. "Your French roads are full of potholes."

The Duchess gave her husband a mildly chiding look before turning to smile at Louis. "But it was worth every bump and bruise to see you again." She took his hand in hers and kissed it.

"I have missed you, sister," he said. "More than I can say."

"Cardinal Richelieu," the Duke called. "I've seen healthier looking corpses."

Porthos had to suppress his own chuckle at that.

"You spend too much time at your desk," the Duke went on.

"Well, I assure you, I'm quite robust," Richelieu replied.

"I rejoice in your good health," Victor said with false sincerity. "You know Gontard, my first minister," he introduced the man who'd exited the carriage with the Duchess.

Porthos wished they'd get on with the pleasantries inside so the musketeers could finally be dismissed.

The Duke's dragon lingered behind the sovereigns, at first ignoring the Musketeer dragons as though they were nothing but useless fixtures. It figured the Duke would have a dragon as arrogant as him.

But then the beast turned its head their way, yellow eyes narrowing. Its nostrils flared with a sharp inhalation, and then its pupils dilated as it lunged at Aramis with a hiss.

Aramis jerked backward and tripped, falling to the ground in frozen shock as all three Musketeer dragons leaped to his defense, Rhaego planting himself directly over his rider and screeching up at the black dragon. Vrita and Savron had moved simultaneously as well, nearly knocking Porthos and Athos down as they shouldered their way forward. The royals screamed and scrambled away. Porthos's hand instinctively went to his fossilized dragon claw dagger, though he didn't draw it; he knew better than to jump in front of four dragons on the verge of violence.

"Maurgrim!" the Duke barked.

The black dragon growled low in its throat and slowly stood down, though its gleaming eyes kept glowering at Aramis, who was still on the ground under Rhaego's belly, looking stunned. Porthos quickly squeezed past Vrita to pull him out and back on his feet.

"You bring such a vicious beast with you?" Louis exclaimed in a high voice.

"My apologies," the Duke said. "Maurgrim has a thing for smelling weakness."

Porthos bristled at the snub even as he thought of his mostly healed arm. But no, the dragon had definitely had its sights set on Aramis, not Porthos.

And now the Duke was eyeing the marksman intently as well. Porthos shifted just enough to block his view.

Cardinal Richelieu cleared his throat. "I suggest we go inside and release the dragons before there is another confrontation."

"Yes, good idea, Cardinal," Louis said and nodded to Captain Treville in dismissal.

The Duke turned to his dragon. "Go with the carriage," he instructed in a low voice before following the royal party toward the palace.

Treville made his way over to the musketeers. "What was that all about?"

"No idea," Porthos replied. He looked at Aramis, whose gaze was distant and breathing coming a little too fast. "Aramis?"

Porthos reached out and squeezed the man's elbow, startling him out of whatever spell he was in.

"Sorry," Aramis said quickly. "I was caught off guard."

"We all were," Athos remarked.

"Get back to the garrison," Treville ordered. "Hopefully the King won't demand the presence of his dragon riders again and we can avoid the Duke's dragon."

Porthos was fine with that.

Aramis spun on his heel and strode away first, not even stopping to pick up his hat from the ground. Porthos bent down to retrieve it for him, gaze worriedly trained on his friend's back as the rest of them followed.

.o.0.o.

The royal party entered the palace and Cardinal Richelieu turned on his heel with a swish of his robes.

"I'm sure you would like to return to Savoy as soon as possible," the pompous man said. "We can discuss the treaty in here." He gestured to an adjoining receiving room.

"Actually," Victor interrupted. "We have had a long journey and I think it would be hospitable were we allowed to refresh ourselves. If that's not too much to ask."

Richelieu's eye twitched. "Of course. I was only trying to anticipate your desires."

Victor didn't bother to conceal his sneer.

Anne stepped forward with a genial smile. "Come. I'll show you to your rooms," she said to Christine.

The envoy from Savoy followed the two women, but once they were in a quieter hallway, Victor turned and pulled Gontard aside. "Find out everything you can about that musketeer Maurgrim went after."

The man quirked a brow in confusion. "Your Grace?"

"Maurgrim doesn't attack without cause. Something about that musketeer was familiar to him, and I want to know why."

Victor had only had direct dealings with musketeers once before—but there had been none left alive. Or so he'd thought. But his dragon had caught a scent and he couldn't ignore that.

Gontard bowed his head and slipped away to do as asked.

In the meantime, Victor was going to have to stall the signing of the treaty until he could get to the bottom of this.

.o.0.o.

D'Artagnan frowned as he watched Porthos and Athos watching Aramis with worried expressions as they reached the garrison. The marksman hadn't said a single word the entire way and almost seemed to be walking in a daze. D'Artagnan didn't think it was because of the Duke's dragon—surely the experienced musketeer wouldn't be daunted by that. And something had been off before the Duke even arrived.

Aramis suddenly pulled up short in the middle of the yard, but he wasn't looking at anything in particular or pursing his mouth in some kind of thought. Rather, his gaze was once again fixed on the ground and there was an unnerving tension in his bearing.

"Aramis," Porthos called.

He didn't respond.

Athos walked over and stepped in front of him. "Aramis."

The marksman flinched with a sharp gasp and blinked rapidly as though he hadn't even been aware they were there. "I'm fine," he immediately said, taking a step away from them. "Excuse me, Treville wanted me to do inventory of the armory."

With that, he quickened his pace across the yard and disappeared into the other building. Rhaego's expression pinched and the dragon whined at the blatant retreat. Athos and Porthos shared a concerned look before making their way to the yard table. Porthos sat down heavily while Athos made a detour to the kitchen and came back out with a bottle of wine and three cups, which he started pouring healthy servings into.

D'Artagnan sat down next to them. "What happened in Savoy?"

"Twenty musketeers were massacred," Porthos replied. He took his cup and knocked back a long drag. "Aramis was the only survivor."

D'Artagnan's jaw slackened in shock.

"They were camping near the French border," Athos picked up. "On a training exercise. They were attacked in the night by a Spanish raiding party that had dragons with them. There were only two musketeer dragon riders on the campaign and they were outnumbered."

D'Artagnan couldn't even fathom it—twenty musketeers killed? And one survivor, who happened to be Aramis. "How did he survive?"

Porthos's and Athos's expressions grew even more solemn, so much that d'Artagnan was suddenly wary of the rest of the story.

"He was wounded," Porthos said, voice thick. "His dragon grabbed him an' flew him to safety."

D'Artagnan glanced over at the russet dragon gazing forlornly at the closed doors of the armory. "So Rhaego saved him."

"Not Rhaego," Porthos corrected. "Aramis's first dragon."

He quirked a confused brow. "I thought Rhaego had always been Aramis's dragon." From what he'd learned about the Musketeers, pairings were permanent as long as the soldier served with the regiment.

Porthos shook his head. "No. Aramis paired wit' Rhaego three years ago. His first dragon was a green female, Grettir. When the musketeers were attacked in Savoy, she was wounded too. She flew Aramis as far away as she could an' then sheltered him against the elements even as she bled out from her own wounds. As it was, Aramis was half dead by the time we found them." Porthos's face grimaced in pain. "There's a bond between a rider and his dragon. To lose her, on top of all our other brothers in arms…it nearly destroyed him."

D'Artagnan leaned his forearms on the table, staggered by this information. He remembered Aramis offering comfort on a rainy night when he'd been struggling with the memories of his father's death. Aramis had told him it would get easier, had spoken with a surety that came from personal experience. And now d'Artagnan knew what that experience was.

Athos wordlessly pushed the third cup of untouched wine toward him before pouring himself a second serving to nurse.

Porthos drained his cup and set it aside, then stood. "He shouldn't be alone."

D'Artagnan watched him head toward the armory, waiting to see if Athos would follow and whether d'Artagnan should go too. But it looked like Porthos was handling this one alone, so d'Artagnan stayed where he was, mulling over everything he'd just learned as it reshaped what he'd thought he knew of his friend.

.o.0.o.

Aramis stood in front of the rack of muskets but hadn't actually picked one up. Images he'd long since put behind him had been assaulting him with renewed vigor—masked men pouring from the trees, blood splashed across the snow…the gleaming yellow eye and wide maw descending toward him.

It had been night when their group had been attacked, no way to know the color of the dragon that belonged to the leader. Aramis only remembered it moved like a shadow, black as the darkness it cut through, catching them off guard.

The Duke's dragon had done the same, that was the only reason the memories had been triggered with such intensity.

Except…that scar across the Duke's dragon's side, Aramis remembered seeing that before. Or thought he did. He'd sustained a head wound in the battle and had been dazed. Maybe he was remembering wrong, or maybe it was just a coincidence. They'd been attacked by a Spanish raiding party, after all, not the Duke of Savoy.

Although…how did they know it was the Spanish? That was just what Aramis had been told, afterward, and he'd frankly been too wounded and devastated by the massive losses that he'd never even thought to question how they determined that when the only surviving witness couldn't tell them anything.

He gave himself a sharp shake, trying to wrench himself out of those tumultuous thoughts. It was five years ago. He'd moved on.

Except right now he could hear their screams as if they were fresh, see men scorched by dragon fire or slain by the sword. Taken by surprise, the musketeers had fought with everything they had—and it hadn't been enough. Aramis could still see the blade punching through Marsac's chest, could hear his friend's dragon's dying screams as it was overtaken by two larger beasts.

Aramis took a stab wound to the side but managed to keep his feet and score a mark down the leader's back. Then someone had hit him in the side of his temple and he'd crashed to the ground, the snow instantly seeping through the thin fabric of his shirt. As the leader was helped away by his men, he'd gestured at one of the dragons to go finish Aramis off. He remembered the beast stalking toward him, the scar on its side rippling with the inner glow of fire, and then…

He squeezed his eyes shut, his throat constricting to the point he could barely breathe. Grettir had tackled the black dragon, both of them rolling in a tangle of gnashing teeth and ripping claws. Maybe she'd been grievously wounded then, or before that, there was no way to know. He hadn't even seen whether she'd killed the other dragon or not, as he had already started to fade from his injuries. The last thing he was aware of was being lifted up, and then nothing.

The door creaked open, shattering the sensations into shards of glass. They still possessed the power to wound, but in smaller cuts than lances through the heart. Aramis started violently and whipped his head around as Porthos entered. His friend didn't say anything, just went over to the opposite side of the room and pretended to inspect a rack of swords.

Aramis breathed out, some of that heart-clenching turmoil settling some at his best friend's presence alone. Savoy had nearly broken him, but Porthos and Athos had been steadfast at his side, helping him recover physically and mentally. They were always there, except at Savoy, and Aramis thanked God they hadn't been.

"I'll be fine," he spoke up. "I just didn't expect the memories to hit me this hard."

Porthos turned around to face him. "There's no shame in it."

Aramis couldn't help but duck his gaze though.

There was a scratching sound outside the door and a snuffle that Aramis could instantly place, and his expression softened.

Porthos grinned. "He's worried about you."

"He was quite quick on his feet today," Aramis remarked.

"I thought he was gonna sit on you to keep the Duke's dragon from gettin' a shot in."

Aramis shook his head and headed for the door. Rhaego jerked back as he stepped outside, and Aramis reached out to give his dragon a fond pat on the neck.

He'd lost so much that fateful night five years ago, but in the years since had found a way to rebuild.

He just needed to get through the Duke's visit without any more stark reminders.


	2. Chapter 2

After taking over an hour to "rest" from their long journey, Victor then claimed he needed to take his dragon out hunting. Richelieu, of course, had looked positively sour over the delays. Victor had mildly pointed out they wouldn't want the dragon to eat one of their horses, now would they? The Cardinal had suggested housing the dragon in the royal den where its keeper could look after him, but Victor had refused with false politeness, claiming he wouldn't stress the King's resources. It was a backhanded statement, as he was fond of using against the Cardinal.

Victor took smug satisfaction in making the man squirm, like a worm on a hook. He made sure to stay out with his dragon for the rest of the afternoon, even though his beast had caught and sated himself on an elk early into the hunt.

Victor stood on a hillside gazing at the city of Paris as the sun set, hand on Maurgrim's neck. "What did you see?" he mused, angling his gaze toward his dragon. "There was something important about that musketeer, wasn't there?"

His dragon's eyes narrowed and Maurgrim bared his fangs. If only he could speak.

Victor finally returned to the palace after it was dark and was immediately met by Gontard in the courtyard.

"The musketeer named Aramis was at Savoy," his first minister reported. "The only survivor."

Victor stiffened. Survivor? That was impossible. How had one escaped?

He turned to his dragon. "Is that it? You recognized him from the forest five years ago?"

Maurgrim pulled his lips back in a sneer.

Victor's mind was awhirl with this information, and then a smile slowly cracked across his face. "This is perfect. I can finally get proof that the Cardinal sent those musketeers to assassinate me." He looked at Gontard. "Find a secluded place we can interrogate this musketeer."

His first minister nodded and hastened away.

Victor turned back to Maurgrim and stroked the beast's snout. "Finally, I will have the truth. And then the Cardinal can whistle for his treaty."

.o.0.o.

D'Artagnan expected Aramis to remain withdrawn given the stressors of the day, and so was surprised when the marksman called him out into the wide open space of the garrison yard.

"Has Constance shown you some of the ways we train dragons for battle readiness?" Aramis asked.

"Um, no." He quirked a brow. "Do they need that?"

"To stay fit and sharp," Aramis replied. "For the same reason we soldiers regularly spar." He tapped Rhaego on the shoulder. "Get up there."

The dragon spread his wings and gave a mighty flap to launch himself into the air where he began to circle the garrison while Aramis went into the storeroom and came back out rolling a large, mounted slingshot. He set the contraption up along the edge of the yard and locked the wheels in place. He then went back into the storeroom and returned with a bag of dried meat chunks.

"Here," he said, passing d'Artagnan a piece. "Load it up and shoot it as high as you can."

"Where should I aim?"

"Doesn't matter."

Rhaego was still circling, and d'Artagnan wasn't sure if he was supposed to shoot it _at_ the dragon or not, so he pulled the slingshot back and just aimed for the middle of the sky from his vantage point. The device's recoil snapped the air like a whip and rocked the frame slightly, but the chunk of meat went sailing upward. D'Artagnan couldn't see where it'd gone, but Rhaego abruptly twisted around and banked, his jaws snapping around something mid-air.

D'Artagnan raised his brows. "Did he catch it?"

"Indeed," Aramis replied. "If he hadn't, he would have made an impromptu landing to snatch it up before someone else did."

Aramis grabbed a piece of meat and loaded it into the slingshot, taking aim himself this time. He shot the meat across the garrison in the opposite direction Rhaego was currently flying, and the dragon had to do a sharp one-eighty in order to catch it. D'Artagnan shook his head, impressed. This was definitely giving the dragon a workout in agility.

D'Artagnan and Aramis took turns shooting food into the sky for Rhaego to catch mid-flight. At some point Athos and Porthos joined them and their dragons took to the skies to participate too. Then it became not only an exercise in acrobatics but a competition as well. One that had a few close scrapes, in d'Artagnan's opinion. Rhaego and Vrita had quite a competitive edge between them.

The dragons were thoroughly tired out at the end of the day and they retired early to their dens.

"Are we going to the tavern?" d'Artagnan asked.

Aramis picked up his hat and planted it on his head. "Not me. I have an appointment elsewhere."

Athos let out an uncharacteristic groan. "When are you going to stop messing around with the Cardinal's mistress?"

Aramis didn't respond to that, save to waggle his brows at Athos, and then he sauntered out of the garrison.

D'Artagnan arched a questioning look at the other two.

"Normally I would," Athos said. "But Treville has been at the palace all day and I should wait to see if any plans involving the Musketeers were made for tomorrow."

Porthos clapped his hands together. "Well, I at least could go for a card game," he said eagerly.

D'Artagnan shook his head. "I have rent to pay. I can't be losing it all to you."

"Aw, come on," Porthos wheedled.

"I think I'll just head back to the Bonacieux's," he begged off. "See what Constance cooked for supper."

"Mm-hmm. Or maybe yer hopin' for a little engagement like Aramis."

D'Artagnan's cheeks flushed hotly. "I am not! Her father lives there too."

Porthos and Athos exchanged amused looks. Okay, maybe his excuse made it sound like if Jean _wasn't_ there, d'Artagnan would be willing to flirt with something more. But he wasn't. Not really. And besides, Jean _was_ there. So the point was moot. D'Artagnan huffed and marched off without a backward glance at his smirking friends.

When he arrived back at the Bonacieux home, he was immediately greeted with the hearty aromas of freshly cooking stew and beans. Constance was in the kitchen, setting out a plate of bread rolls from the bakery.

"That smells wonderful," d'Artagnan said, making her jump. "Sorry," he grimaced. "I didn't mean to startle you."

"It's fine," she said. "I just didn't know whether to expect you for supper."

"The others had other engagements this evening."

Not that he was disappointed.

"Can I help?" he asked.

"You can set the table."

D'Artagnan retrieved the bowls from the cupboard and set them out, then the silverware. Jean Bonacieux shuffled in just in time for Constance to ladle out some stew and beans into the bowls, steam wafting from the hot meal with its tantalizing aromas. They all settled around the table and began to eat.

D'Artagnan broke a bread roll in half and dunked it in the stew's broth. "You both knew Aramis's first dragon, didn't you?" he asked curiously. The Bonacieuxs had been the royal dragon keepers for generations, so of course they would have trained Aramis's first dragon.

Constance blinked at him in surprise. "He told you about that?" Before he could answer, she suddenly scowled. "It must be that blasted Duke's visit. I heard about his dragon this afternoon."

"Porthos and Athos told me," d'Artagnan said. "Until then I thought he'd always been paired with Rhaego."

"Aramis was one of the first musketeers Treville hand-picked when he formed the regiment," Jean put in. "Was one of the first dragon riders. The boy was a natural with them."

D'Artagnan quirked a brow. "How old was he?"

"Not yet twenty."

Now it was d'Artagnan's turn to blink in surprise. Aramis had been that young when he'd become a musketeer? Then maybe that meant d'Artagnan's dream wasn't so lofty.

Jean's expression fell. "It was a dark day when those twenty men and two dragons were lost."

D'Artagnan did the math in his head. "The Savoy massacre was five years ago, but Aramis has only been paired with Rhaego for three—there wasn't another dragon available for him in that gap?"

That must have been hard on him.

Constance looked sad as she said, "After Grettir died, Aramis didn't want to pair with another dragon."

"We all tried to convince him to," Jean added. "He's such a skilled warrior and rider, it was a waste for him not to be paired. But he was adamant."

"He obviously changed his mind," d'Artagnan pointed out.

"Not really by conscious choice," Constance said. "Rhaego was a new acquisition but he couldn't be tamed. It got to the point where the King was threatening to put him down. I enlisted Aramis's help, hoping someone else might be able to get that dragon to obey." Constance shook her head in amusement. "Rhaego didn't. But the two of them did eventually take to each other. Saved each other, if you ask me." She sobered after that. "How is Aramis?"

D'Artagnan shrugged. "The Duke's visit did seem to stir up some things, but he got past it pretty quickly."

Constance hummed thoughtfully. "Just be mindful he's not putting on a front for you. Sometimes he forgets he doesn't have to carry the burden of Savoy on his own."

D'Artagnan frowned. Aramis had seemed fine that afternoon. Was it a front? Or had it simply been an entertaining diversion that he'd needed? What if calling upon female companionship was another form of distraction? But if that was what Aramis needed to get through the Duke's visit, then so be it.

But maybe tomorrow d'Artagnan would try to pay closer attention to his friend. And maybe he'd find a way to show Aramis that the support the marksman had offered him on previous occasions would always be reciprocated.

.o.0.o.

Aramis woke abruptly to the caustic odor of smelling salts under his nose. He automatically jerked away from it, only to bump his head against his arms, which were pulled tautly above him, the tightness of ropes around his wrists. His toes, covered in only his stockings, barely scraped across the dusty floor beneath him, and a chill wormed its way under the thin fabric of his shirt without his coat to cover it.

He blinked furiously, trying to clear his vision and figure out where he was and why. The last thing he remembered was being on his way to Adele's, but he'd never made it. Someone had hit him from behind? There was a dull throb at the base of his neck to confirm it, but it was mild in comparison to the strain on his shoulders and the way it distended his rib cage.

Blurry shapes began to take form in front of him, and Aramis gaped, flabbergasted, at the Duke of Savoy, his first minister, and two of the Duke's guards from his retinue. He craned his neck around as much as he could with his arms pressed against his head and took note of what looked like an old barn. It was still dark outside, from what he could tell, and a handful of lanterns had been set up to illuminate the space.

"What is this?" he demanded, heart rate ratcheting up.

The Duke stepped forward. "You were at Savoy five years ago. The lone survivor of the massacre."

Aramis swallowed thickly. "What of it?"

"I want a confession of your mission there," the Duke went on.

Aramis frowned. "What? We were on a training exercise…"

The Duke punched him in the stomach, driving the oxygen from his lungs and leaving him gasping raggedly.

"You were there for an assassination."

"Wh-what?" Aramis coughed. "No—"

The Duke struck him across the face. "The Musketeer troop was sent to murder me and place my son in my rule."

"I don't know what you're talking about! We were on a training exercise. We were attacked by the Spanish…" Aramis trailed off as it suddenly dawned on him with sickening clarity. "It was you," he breathed. The masked men…the black dragon. "You attacked us in the night. You murdering bastard!" He gave a futile yank, dangling from the ropes around his wrists.

The Duke grabbed Aramis's chin, fingers digging into his cheeks. "It was self-defense," he seethed. He released Aramis and punched him in the ribs so hard he swayed where he hung. "Confess."

Aramis sucked in several wheezing gasps. "There's…nothing…to confess. We were not assassins!"

"My chancellor showed me the secret orders from the Cardinal."

Aramis blinked at him rapidly. "Secret orders?" he spluttered. "You were misinformed…"

The Duke punched him again, stealing his breath to speak. "I should have known one of you had escaped. When we returned from slaughtering the Musketeer dogs, it was to find my chancellor murdered."

"It…wasn't…me," Aramis coughed.

The Duke turned to his first minister. "I need to be back at the palace before dawn. Secure me that confession so I can finally confront the Cardinal."

The first minister nodded, and the Duke strode out, leaving his two guards behind.

Aramis struggled to draw in air as he hung by his wrists, diaphragm stretching painfully.

"It will save you a great deal of pain if you just confess now," the first minister said.

"We…weren't…assassins!" Aramis spat. "And we most certainly weren't…working for the Cardinal."

The man merely shrugged as if Aramis's denial made no difference to him. "You will reveal the truth eventually," he said. "I am somewhat of an…expert…in these things."

Aramis fought to keep his composure but his reserves were rapidly depleting, not at the thought of torture, but from his mind reeling at the revelation behind the massacre at Savoy. It had been the Duke, not the Spanish. And because he thought they were there to assassinate him? On orders from the Cardinal? Why had he thought that? What were those secret orders he said he saw? None of it made sense.

The Duke's first minister walked across the barn and picked up a work bench, dragging it over to the middle of the barn. He then broke off one of the pair legs so the bench sat at a slant. Aramis watched in confusion and not a little trepidation as the man pulled some leather belts from a satchel next. Then he gestured to the two thugs, who moved toward Aramis.

One of them drew a knife and reached up to cut the rope to get him down. The landing was jarring and he couldn't catch his balance as his arms were seized. Still, he tried to struggle as he was manhandled over to the bench, but another punch to his gut left him too winded to fight.

He was forced across the plank, head angled downward, and the leather straps were secured firmly across his chest and thighs, holding him in place. The rope from his wrists was then removed. His heart lurched at the position that felt ten times more vulnerable than hanging by his wrists had.

How far off was morning? His absence would be noted at muster. But…his friends also knew he'd gone to see Adele, so they would write off any tardiness as due to that…

His heart quailed at the thought as his interrogator pulled a chair over and sat by his head. One of the goons brought over a bucket of water and a pitcher and set it next to him. The first minister pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket and laid it across Aramis's face. His heart thumped painfully against his rib cage as he heard the slosh of water. And then the liquid was being poured over his face, soaking the cloth and instantly smothering him.

He bucked against the straps as water ran into his nostrils and down his throat, filling his mouth and cutting off his airways. His body automatically gasped in a desperate attempt to breathe, but only inhaled water that burned going down the wrong pipe.

Then it stopped and the cloth was removed. Aramis choked and sputtered, coughing up water as he fought for breath.

"What was the Musketeers' mission in Savoy five years ago?"

"T-training exercise," Aramis coughed.

The wet cloth shrouded his face and the water poured again. Aramis tried to jerk his head to the side but a hand grabbed a fistful of his hair and held him still. He couldn't breathe, couldn't scream, couldn't escape.

The stream cut off and the cloth yanked away again. Aramis's next gulping down of air burned.

"I will ask you again: will you confess?"

Aramis coughed and spluttered, water clinging to his eyelashes and dribbling down his cheeks. "I won't…confess…to a lie!"

The first minister covered his face again and Aramis writhed and thrashed as he slowly suffocated.


	3. Chapter 3

Porthos sat at the table in the garrison yard, anxiously watching the gate. Aramis was late, which wasn't entirely unusual after the marksman had spent a night in a lady's company, but Porthos couldn't help but worry given his friend's state of mind yesterday.

D'Artagnan sat across from him, glancing between Porthos and the focus of his attention. "Do you think the Cardinal caught him?"

"That's jus' what we all need," Porthos muttered. "But I doubt the Cardinal has time for his mistress while the Duke's here." Or Richelieu was so infuriated by the Duke that he'd seek an escape in the arms of Mademoiselle Bessette.

"Would it make you feel better if we went looking for him?" d'Artagnan asked.

Porthos finally glanced his way, furrowing his brow at the suggestion. D'Artagnan looked genuinely concerned, though for Porthos or Aramis, he couldn't tell. Not that it mattered.

"Actually, yeah," he said, standing up.

D'Artagnan got to his feet as well and the two headed out of the garrison toward Adele Bessette's house. They'd probably run into Aramis on their way there and have to come up with an excuse for being out and about that _wasn't_ checking up on him. But as they wove through the streets of Paris, there was no sign of their friend. Eventually they reached the block where Adele lived.

"Are we going to knock on the door?" d'Artagnan asked uncertainly. "What if the Cardinal _is_ there?"

"No carriage," Porthos said, scanning the street. He gaze landed on something in a side alley, and his blood ran cold.

Sprinting across the road, Porthos snatched up the hat, the two feathers tucked into the brim immediately recognizable. He pivoted on his heel, ignoring d'Artagnan's sputtering questions, and strode toward the door of the house. A servant opened up, looking miffed at his harsh pounding.

"Mornin'," he said. "We'd like ta speak with the lady of the house."

The servant eyed him disparagingly but retreated to fetch her mistress. Porthos shifted his weight anxiously on the stoop until Adele finally arrived at the door, pulling the folds of her robe closer about her.

"Yes?" she queried.

Porthos kept his voice low. "Is Aramis here?"

Adele's face blanched and she cast a fearful look up and down the street. It was empty though, if she was worried about Richelieu turning up out of the blue. "He never showed last night," she whispered.

Porthos stiffened in alarm, clutching tighter at Aramis's hat in his hands. He'd obviously been here. "Thank you."

"Wait," she called. "Has something happened to him?"

"I'm sure he's fine," Porthos said hurriedly. Perhaps it was rude to brush her off, but he had more important things to see to than her feelings.

D'Artagnan quickened his pace to keep up as Porthos hastened back to the garrison. "What do we do now?"

"Get reinforcements."

They reached the garrison and Porthos immediately strode across the yard toward the dens in the back. "Rhaego!"

The russet dragon was curled up in his den and looked up at the sound of his name. But upon seeing Porthos, he simply huffed and laid his head back down.

"Get out here!" Porthos snapped. "Aramis is in trouble."

That got the dragon to look his way again, though with a confused expression as though he was trying to decide if it were a ruse or not.

Athos and Savron had been over at the silverback's den and both of them came over at Porthos's urgent tone. "What's going on?"

"Aramis is missin'. Found this outside Adele's place but she said he never came to see her last night." Porthos shoved the hat under Rhaego's nose as the dragon ventured out of his den. "We need you ta find him."

The russet dragon at least seemed to be taking the situation seriously now as he spent a few moments sniffing over Aramis's hat. Not that he needed something to recognize his rider's scent, but there were potentially others on the article he could home in on, like the scent of whoever abducted Aramis, or particles from the environment they came from. Porthos didn't really know how Rhaego was able to do all that, but he'd seen it with his own eyes.

Finally Rhaego lifted his head and gave a nod.

"I'll get Savron and Vrita saddled," Athos said.

"I'll help." D'Artagnan hurried after him.

Rhaego looked ready to take flight that moment and Porthos reached out to grip his chin. "Wait fer us," he ordered.

Rhaego grumbled in his throat but at least didn't knock Porthos on his ass and take off anyway.

Athos and d'Artagnan returned quickly and they finally mounted up, following Rhaego into the sky. The russet dragon circled the city first, flying low enough to startle some people in the streets when he swooped overhead with a gust of wind in his wake. Vrita and Savron hung back, waiting for him to catch the trail.

Porthos wondered if Rhaego was getting distracted by all the smells of the city. Usually the dragon needed Aramis to help him focus when there were so much stimuli to sift through. But Aramis was the one they were trying to find.

Rhaego veered away from the city and toward a ramshackle barn set on a vacant homestead. That did not bode well. Porthos unclipped his anchor line from his belt before Vrita had even landed, anxious to look around and see if Aramis was out here—and why.

The dragons' landing must have drawn attention, because the barn door opened and two men stepped out, hands preemptively on the hilts of their swords. At seeing the musketeers, they immediately drew their blades to fight.

Porthos leaped from the saddle and unsheathed his schiavona. D'Artagnan was right behind him and they reached the armed men first. It took only a few strikes to dispatch them and then Porthos was bursting into the barn. There wasn't much inside, and his gaze was instantly drawn to a slanted bench and a figure strapped to it. A cloth covered his face but Porthos had no doubt who it was.

He bolted across the barn and yanked the wet fabric off. Aramis was soaked from head to halfway down the top of his shirt, damp curls plastered to his forehead. His eyes were closed and he wasn't moving.

"Aramis!" Porthos bent down and slapped his cheek. "No, no, no."

Aramis sputtered and started to cough weakly.

D'Artagnan reached out to cut him free, but the sound of a horse whinnying out back had him sprinting toward a rear door instead. Athos swiftly moved in to take his place, cutting through the leather straps cinched around Aramis's chest and legs. Porthos quickly pulled him upright, bracing an arm around his shoulders as Aramis limply sagged against him, barely conscious. But at least he was breathing, even if it was punctuated by small coughs.

D'Artagnan came back. "He got away."

"Did you get a good look at him?" Athos asked.

The boy shook his head regretfully.

"Aramis," Porthos prompted. "Can you stand?"

He didn't get a response, save for another weak cough.

"D'Artagnan, help me find his boots," Athos said.

"And his coat," Porthos added, not moving to help as he was the only thing holding their friend up at the moment.

The other two quickly found the missing articles and wrangled Aramis into them. Then Athos pulled one of Aramis's arms up over his shoulders, Porthos took the other, and between them they carried Aramis out of the barn.

Rhaego scampered over to them, snuffling worriedly.

"He's gonna ride wit' me," Porthos told the dragon.

"Hey," d'Artagnan called. "Aren't these men from the Duke of Savoy's retinue?"

Athos glanced at Porthos, signaling him to take Aramis's weight before he went back to where d'Artagnan was standing over the guards they'd killed.

"They are," the swordsman said after a moment.

Porthos's brows shot upward in disbelief. "Why the hell would the Duke's men have done this?"

"It was…the Duke," Aramis rasped.

Porthos shifted his grip to look down and catch his friend's gaze. "What?"

Aramis grasped the front of Porthos's coat, bowing forward under a series of coughs. "He killed…five years ago. The massacre."

Porthos exchanged a bewildered look with the others. What on earth was Aramis talking about?

"Wanted me to…confess," Aramis wheezed. "That we were there to…assassinate him. Under- the Cardinal's orders."

"The Duke was here himself?" Athos asked urgently.

Aramis nodded, struggling to lift his head.

"We can sort this all out later," Porthos interjected. "Right now we need ta get you out of here."

Aramis tightened his grip on Porthos's coat, looking up with wide, glassy eyes. "We weren't. We _weren't_."

Porthos frowned in worry. "We know. We'll get to the bottom of this, alright? I promise."

He cocked his head for Vrita to come over, and the dragon laid down on the ground so he could easily pull Aramis into the saddle. Athos and d'Artagnan climbed onto Savron and then they all made a hasty flight back to the garrison.

As soon as they landed in the yard, Porthos shouted for someone to get Doctor Lemay.

"I'll be fine," Aramis said softly, more lucid now.

Porthos ignored the protest as he helped Aramis to the infirmary and eased him down onto the nearest bed. Aramis curled onto his side, hugging his ribs as he continued to be plagued by weak coughs.

"D'Artagnan, get him some dry clothes," Athos ordered. "I'll find the captain."

Porthos stayed by Aramis's side, watching anxiously as his friend shivered. How long had he been in those men's clutches, tortured for a confession that wasn't truth? If he'd never made it to Adele's, then he'd at least been grabbed the evening before.

D'Artagnan arrived with a clean shirt and Porthos held Aramis up so they could get him out of the wet one. As d'Artagnan pulled his shirt off, he paused at the bruises forming up and down his torso. Porthos also finally noticed the rope burns on his wrists, and his shoulders looked a little swollen. He wished he'd given those men a good thrashing before killing them.

Aramis tried not to make pained sounds as d'Artagnan helped him slip his arms through the sleeves of the dry shirt but wasn't entirely successful.

"I don't understand," he murmured. "All this time, we thought it was a random Spanish attack. But it was the Duke. Why? Why did he think we were assassins? Why?"

"Shh," Porthos soothed, easing him to lie back down as he started to fade from obvious exhaustion.

The doors opened and Athos entered with Treville. The Captain's expression was a mixture of shock and outrage as he took in Aramis's condition.

"You're certain the Duke was behind this?" he asked.

"That's what Aramis said," Athos confirmed. "And it was the Duke's men at the barn."

Treville seemed at a loss for words.

"What is even goin' on?" Porthos asked, speaking the burning questions he knew Aramis needed answers to. "Aramis said the Duke was convinced the musketeers in Savoy were assassins, specifically workin' fer the Cardinal."

Treville shook his head. "The Cardinal has always despised the Musketeers, but to set them up as assassins and then reveal their location to the Duke…that is a level of scheming I hadn't thought possible."

"This _is_ the Cardinal we're talkin' about," Porthos growled.

Treville moved forward and crouched down next to Aramis, prodding him awake with a gentle yet firm hand on his shoulder. "Aramis, was the Duke directly involved in your abduction?"

He nodded. "His first minister took over the…questioning…later, so he could return to the palace."

"That must be who escaped out back when we arrived," d'Artagnan put in.

"Which means the Duke will soon know that Aramis was rescued," Treville said.

"He can't accuse the Cardinal without admitting to kidnapping and torturing a King's Musketeer," Athos put in.

"Not to mention we need this treaty with Savoy," Treville added.

"What about the fact that he murdered twenty musketeers five years ago?" Porthos demanded.

"And that it was the Cardinal who set them up," d'Artagnan said.

Treville stood. "I'll go to the King. I doubt there is much we can do about the Duke, but the Cardinal cannot be allowed to get away with such treachery."

Porthos watched him go, frustration churning in his stomach. The Duke shouldn't be allowed to get away with such a blatant act of aggression against one of the King's men either.

But such matters were, regretfully, out of his hands.

All he could do was stay by his best friend's side and try to pick up the pieces that were left in the wake of destruction and injustice. Again.

.o.0.o.

Treville went straight to the palace to seek an audience with Louis. The King was not in negotiations with the Duke, which was both helpful yet worrisome. Gontard had likely reported Aramis's rescue by now. Treville didn't know if the Duke would make another attempt at the marksman, but he wasn't that concerned over it, considering Aramis was currently under the watchful eyes of his three friends. Still, they would have to be vigilant.

The Cardinal was also nowhere to be seen, another stroke of luck, and Treville found the King in his chambers.

"Your Majesty," he greeted. "I have a matter of utmost gravity to inform you of."

Louis's expression turned serious and he dismissed the servants. "Yes, what is it, Treville?"

Treville took a deep breath. "I have just learned that the Duke of Savoy was responsible for the attack on the musketeers in Savoy five years ago. Apparently, he was led to believe that the Cardinal had sent them as assassins against him. I know how you feel about Richelieu, Your Majesty, but if he blatantly set up your own men to be massacred…" Treville paused as Louis's eyes widened, not with shock or outrage…but terror.

A sickening feeling settled in Treville's gut as the silence stretched on for several long moments.

"You knew." Treville shook his head in denial even as the look on Louis's face confirmed it.

"Victor's chancellor Cluzet was a Spanish spy. He was close to discovering that Christine was spying for us. Cardinal Richelieu came to me with a plan to dispose of Cluzet before he could expose her, said the musketeers scheduled to be in Savoy were the perfect distraction." Louis spread his arms in a helpless gesture, tone distraught. "She is my sister and France's greatest asset. What was I supposed to do?"

Treville could only gape at his sovereign. "Why did Your Majesty not seek my counsel?" he couldn't help but blurt. He knew the Duchess was their most valuable spy within Savoy; if he'd known she was in danger, he could have helped them come up with a plan.

"The Cardinal said it was urgent and that your sentiments might get in the way of what had to be done to preserve France's security," Louis replied regretfully, and Treville could hear him simply parroting the words, even all these years later. "It was a regrettable decision but necessary."

Treville's jaw clenched in rage at Richelieu. The cause may have been necessary, but Treville had no doubt the Cardinal had taken advantage of it to rid himself of half of the Musketeer regiment he loathed.

And Treville realized there was nothing he could do about it. Richelieu had acted in service of France and with the King's approval. There would be no justice for Aramis and those twenty lost men.

"How did you find out about this?" Louis asked.

Treville gritted his teeth to keep his tone level. "The Duke kidnapped and tortured a musketeer for information about the mission in Savoy."

He decided to refrain from mentioning it was the sole survivor of the massacre five years ago, lest the Cardinal use this as an excuse to have Aramis silenced permanently. And good God, how was Treville going to keep his man safe now?

Louis's eyes blew wide in alarm. "What am I going to do? We haven't signed the treaty yet and France needs Savoy!" His voice rose in pitch at his distress.

"The musketeer was rescued and he did not talk," Treville assured him staunchly. "Two of the Duke's men were killed in the process. However, he will have to renounce them as rogues lest he wants to admit to capturing and torturing one of the King's men while a guest at the palace."

Louis spun on his heel and let out a long moan. "This is all a horrible mess, Treville!"

Treville stood rigidly, years of training allowing him to keep his composure. It was a mess of the Cardinal's making, and Treville was going to do everything in his power to make sure it didn't fall on the heads of his men.

"That may be, Your Majesty," he said, "but I advise you do nothing and maintain ignorance regarding anything the Duke might present to you. He has no proof of his allegations against the troop that was slaughtered."

Or against the Cardinal, unfortunately.

"And what about the treaty?" the King whined.

Treville didn't know what to say to that. He was also worried about what the Duke would do next.

"Hopefully the Duke will realize the folly of his pursuit and sign it," he said.

"I need to speak with the Cardinal," Louis muttered.

Treville's chest tightened with rage and he had to swallow the urge to exclaim that the King should keep this to himself. But he could tell Louis was frightened by these revelations coming to light, and the Cardinal was the one who'd guided him the first time. And the secrets had successfully stayed buried for five long years.

Until a chance encounter with the lone survivor.

Treville bowed as he was dismissed, and then turned to head back to the garrison to tell his men the difficult news.


	4. Chapter 4

Victor sat at the writing desk in the guest chambers at the palace, his thoughts churning with anticipation and plots for when he would finally be able to confront Richelieu with what he knew. He would have years ago had the secret orders for his assassination not mysteriously disappeared after he had gone out to take care of the Musketeer dogs.

"You run and hide," Christine was saying to their son. "And I'll count to twenty. One. Two."

Small footsteps went pattering into the outer room.

"Three." Christine paused and turned to Victor, leaning against the arm of his chair. "I didn't expect to enjoy so much of your company in Paris."

"I thought you would favor the Cardinal over me," he said.

She ran her fingers over his hair.

"There's a small matter to be resolved before we conclude negotiations," he added.

"I suppose the Cardinal's trying one of his famous tricks," she said. "What a terrible man. You can't trust him at all, you know."

"I have no such intention."

Christine walked her fingers around the back of his neck. "How devious you are. It's one of the things I admire about you."

Victor shifted to snake an arm around her waist and pull her halfway into his lap. "And? What else do you admire?"

"No," she replied. "Now you're fishing for it." She lowered her voice and pressed a finger against his lips. "And I won't indulge your vanity."

"Mama, where are you?" came little Louis's voice from the other room.

"Coming!" she called back but didn't rise.

"What if I decide to defy France and side with Spain?" Victor asked.

Christine's expression was sober. "Whatever you decide, I will support you until the end." She leaned in closer. "And I love you for it."

Victor tipped his head back to press his mouth to hers.

Then someone cleared their throat, and they broke apart.

Christine huffed. "Gontard, you are the most inconvenient man." With a glance back at Victor, she stood and went out into the other room to find their son.

Victor rose from his chair. "Did you get the confession?"

Gontard shifted his weight nervously. "Musketeers arrived before I could."

"What?" Victor spat. "How did they find you?"

"I don't know."

Victor spun away, furious. He would not be thwarted from his course, not when he was so close to bringing Richelieu to his knees.

"No matter," he said, taking a composing breath. "I know enough, and I will make France beg for forgiveness and their precious treaty. And then I might side with Spain anyway," he added.

No one, not the Cardinal, not his wife's brother, and not a lowly musketeer, was going to make him look weak or subservient.

.o.0.o.

Athos watched as Doctor Lemay finished wrapping Aramis's ribs, Porthos helping to hold his arms and shirt up. Nothing was broken, but Lemay had concluded that some stabilization would be beneficial, especially considering the persistent coughs Aramis was wracked with.

Lemay tucked in the end of the bandage and Aramis was finally able to put his arms down. There was some swelling in his shoulders from having been strung up and his wrists had been salved and bandaged, but the worst damage seemed to have come from the water torture.

"I advise you stay propped up as much as you can with some pillows," Lemay said. "I'll mix up a tonic for the pain, and send for me immediately if the cough worsens."

Aramis was too worn out to respond to the instructions so Athos answered,

"We will."

Porthos grabbed several pillows from the other infirmary beds and moved to position them behind Aramis against the headboard. Lemay made up the tonic and left it with them before packing up his bag and taking his leave. Athos went ahead and poured some of the medicine into a cup of mulled wine and brought it over to Aramis, holding the cup steady as those coughs kept interrupting his attempts to drink it all.

The door opened and closed with Treville's return, and they all looked up in expectation. Athos felt a heavy weight settle in his stomach at the grim expression on the captain's face.

"What did the King say?" he asked, fearing the answer.

Treville came to a standstill before them and drew his shoulders back. "The King was aware of what the Cardinal did. It was done with his blessing."

" _What_?" Porthos erupted.

Athos stood ramrod still, the foundation of his world beginning to tilt off its axis.

"The Cardinal used the Musketeers as a distraction in order to protect France's most valuable spy in Savoy—the Duchess."

"The Duchess?" Athos repeated.

"Her cover was under threat from a Spanish spy," Treville explained. "The Duke's chancellor. The Cardinal led him to believe the Musketeers were there to assassinate him in order to get to Cluzet and remove him before he could expose the Duchess. From what I understand, it was a success."

Athos glanced around at the others, not sure what to make of this revelation.

"We were betrayed…to save the Duchess?" Aramis spoke up, sounding just as lost as the rest of them likely felt.

Treville nodded gravely. "As much as I cannot condone the way it was done, yes, it was done to protect France." His gaze hardened. "This is a state secret," he emphasized. "I shouldn't even be telling you, but Aramis especially deserves the truth, and the King didn't expressly forbid me from sharing what I learned with you." His expression pinched with regret then. "The Cardinal manipulated him, playing on his love for his sister to get him to sacrifice his musketeers."

Silence filled the room.

"So what now?" d'Artagnan asked, breaking it.

"Nothing," Treville said. "We cannot pursue the matter without risking the Duchess."

"The Duke isn't jus' gonna let this go," Porthos pointed out. "He knows about Aramis now; what's ta stop him from comin' after him again?"

Treville's lips thinned. "The Duke cannot stay in France indefinitely. He has only two choices: sign the treaty or not. Either way, he'll have to return to Savoy soon."

"He's going to accuse the Cardinal," a feminine voice intruded.

They all snapped their gazes to the door which none of them seemed to have heard open. A stunned hush fell over them as the Duchess herself drew back the hood of her cloak from her face.

"Your Grace," Treville said in surprise.

"I have come to ask for your help, Captain Treville."

"Why should we care if the Cardinal's schemes get brought to light?" Porthos spoke up.

"The security of France is at stake," she replied. "This treaty is of utmost importance to protect France from Spain."

"She's right," Treville said. "We should get to the palace before things get out of hand."

Athos wasn't sure how exactly the captain thought this situation could be salvaged, but they could not ignore their duty.

Porthos looked reluctant to leave Aramis but Treville shot him a sharp look.

"D'Artagnan will stay with Aramis," he said.

D'Artagnan gave a staunch nod, and Athos knew the boy would look after their friend—and protect him should the Duke make another move while simultaneously confronting Richelieu.

The rest of them started to file toward the door, but the Duchess paused and turned back, eyes swimming with remorse as she looked at Aramis.

"I'm sorry for what happened five years ago. When I found out what was sacrificed in order to protect me…" She trailed off, looking at a loss for words. Really, what could be said?

She inclined her head in silent gratitude.

Aramis didn't respond, and Athos didn't blame him. The shock of these truths and the brutality he'd just gone through would be overwhelming to the stoutest man.

As they exited the infirmary and made their way out of the garrison, the Duchess slipped away. She'd completed her duty as France's spy and now it was up to the rest of them to figure out what to do about the looming explosion.

They reached the palace just as the Duke and his first minister barged into the hall where the King and Cardinal were convened.

"Victor," Louis said nervously.

The Duke's scathing glare was fixed on Richelieu. "You tout the importance of an alliance between Savoy and France, but I know you tried to assassinate me five years ago," he declared.

The Cardinal's brows shot upward in apparent disbelief at the accusation and he scoffed. "I did no such thing."

"My chancellor Cluzet showed me the orders from you."

Richelieu's lips twitched almost smugly, though he quickly attempted to smooth his expression. "By all means, present these so-called orders."

The Duke sneered at him. "After I thwarted the assassination attempt on my life, I returned to find my chancellor murdered and the orders gone. Obviously someone got through. But you still failed."

"This is ridiculous," the Cardinal exclaimed.

The Duke snapped his vitriolic gaze to the King. "Present all your musketeers and I will pick out one of the would-be assassins that escaped that night."

Athos stiffened. He would not allow Aramis to be paraded as a scapegoat for these machinations. "Are you saying you're responsible for the slaughter of twenty musketeers five years ago?" he spoke up loudly.

The Duke whipped that scathing glower toward him. "The only thing I am responsible for is defending my land and family."

The Cardinal let out another derisive scoff. "This whole thing sounds like one huge misunderstanding. We should focus on the present, not rumors and speculation from five years ago that cannot be substantiated. The treaty is what's important now."

"To hell with your treaty!" the Duke exclaimed. "I demand satisfaction."

Athos stepped forward, hand on the hilt of his sword. "I will give you satisfaction."

"Athos!" Treville snapped. "Stand down."

The Duke held up his hand, eyes alight with intrigue and a thirst for violence. "No, I will fight a duel with this musketeer."

He doffed his jacket and handed it off to his first minister. Athos removed his doublet as well and passed it to Porthos to hold.

"What is going on?" a familiar voice inquired as the Duchess swept into the room.

"That matter I spoke of must finally have some recompense," the Duke replied.

Her eyes widened in what Athos thought must have been feigned surprise. She hastened toward her husband, lowering her voice though it still carried in the large hall.

"You cannot do this."

"Spoken like a true daughter of France," he said contemptuously.

She took him by the arms earnestly. "I am the Duchess of Savoy and your loving wife before I'm anything. Think of Savoy and our son."

Athos waited as the Duke eyed him intently, the cogs of the man's mind visibly turning.

"Very well," the Duke finally announced. "We will not duel to the death." He jabbed a finger at Athos. "If he wins, then we discuss the treaty. But if I triumph…then I return home immediately."

Athos furrowed his brow a fraction.

"Sorry," the Cardinal sputtered. "I assume you're joking?"

The Duke drew his blades and rolled his neck to stretch his muscles in preparation.

Athos unsheathed his rapier and parrying dagger as Richelieu turned to Treville.

"Will your man win?"

"Athos is the best swordsman in the regiment," the captain replied, though his gaze was tense.

"That's not what I asked."

"Is this a good idea, Cardinal?" Louis asked from behind them.

"That rather depends on the outcome."

Athos turned away from their debate. The outcome of the treaty was not his concern here; avenging Aramis for the torture he'd endured, both today and five years ago, was. He raised his blades, prepared to exact every ounce of fury on behalf of his brother and the other twenty fallen musketeers.

"He who draws blood first is the winner," the Duke said.

Athos gave a clipped nod. Then they advanced, no warning, no fan flourish, just deadly resolve and righteous retribution. Steel collided in a series of staccato screeches as both swordsmen parried and riposted in a flurry. They locked blades at one point, their faces inches from each other. The Duke's cheeks puffed with exertion and rage; Athos felt himself vibrating with the same fiery wrath.

They broke apart, spinning around so they'd changed places on the floor. The Duke struck again, the clash of metal resounding throughout the hall and amplified by its echoes. Athos drove the man back, all the way to the throne dais where he finally caught the Duke's rapier with his own and gave a deft twist that wrenched the sword from the Duke's hand. The Duke backpedaled to avoid a slice from Athos's parrying dagger and ended up tripping on the bottom step and sprawling on his back at Louis's feet. Athos moved in and pressed the tip of his sword to the Duke's throat.

All he had to do was give a small cut, draw first blood. But his blood was singing for justice and in his mind all he could see was Aramis strapped to that bench, half drowned.

He saw him lying pale as death in the snow under the wing of his dragon long since cold…

"Athos!" Treville snapped in a low voice.

For a brief moment, he considered defying it all and killing the Duke anyway.

But then he reined himself in and delivered a quick score across the man's collar bone. First blood. The duel was won.

The Duke was seething up at him. Athos crouched down as though to offer him a hand up and lowered his voice to just above a whisper. "The musketeers in Savoy were not there to assassinate you. Whatever players chose to mislead you in their game, the lone survivor knew nothing of it."

He stood then and sheathed his blades, turning his back on the man responsible for so much death and suffering.

Porthos whistled softly under his breath as he handed Athos back his coat. "I woulda killed him."

"I almost did," he confessed. "But the treaty between France and Savoy is for the good of the country, and that is our duty above all."

"I'm glad you realized that before doing something irreparable," Treville muttered, glancing over his shoulder at the Duke stumbling over to his wife and first minister in humiliation. "You both get back to the garrison. I don't want the Duke to see either you or Aramis for the rest of his stay."

Athos couldn't agree more with that.

Treville's gaze shifted to Richelieu and his expression crinkled with regret. "I'm sorry true justice could not be won here today."

Athos inclined his head in acknowledgement. There would be no such justice for Aramis and those twenty musketeers. All they could do was come to terms with the truth and hope to move on.

.o.0.o.

The infirmary was quiet, save for when a series of coughs would break the silence. Aramis pressed an arm across his chest to brace against the jarring movement. The coughs themselves were not that bad, but coupled with the beating he'd taken and tightness in his lungs from repeated asphyxiation, he was in misery.

Not the least of which was trying to make sense of all the recent revelations. For five years he'd believed the deaths of his friends had been some random, senseless waste of life. Now it turned out it was to save France's spy in Savoy—and yet it still felt like a waste and still felt senseless. For so long after it had happened, Aramis had wrestled with those feelings and questions. He'd taken them to God, trying to find answers in his faith as to how something so meaningless could have been allowed to happen. Now it had meaning, but only partially; the Cardinal's actions had been guided by his personal vendetta. And knowing the truth now didn't bring Aramis any solace as he had prayed for, because the ones responsible were out of reach, just as those nonexistent Spanish raiders had been.

He coughed again, the pain in his chest and heart feeling fit to burst. D'Artagnan sat by his bed, watching him worriedly.

"What was Grettir like?" the boy asked out of the blue.

Aramis blinked, startled, and his chest constricted further at the mention of his first dragon. He swallowed around the spiky lump in his throat. "She was brave. Loyal. A little mischievous at times." His mouth quirked at the unbidden memory. "She liked to steal my things and hide them. Especially my hat."

D'Artagnan's lips curled into a wry smile. "You have a type."

Aramis couldn't help but laugh at that, even as grief anew made moisture prick at the corners of his eyes. "She gave her life to save mine," he said, voice breaking.

D'Artagnan's expression was full of empathy. "Because she was brave and loyal."

Aramis blinked the tears away. "I would have given anything to save them."

Not a single one had come back from that forest. Just him. It was a heavy burden to carry.

"I'm sure each one of them would have willingly done the same for you," d'Artagnan said quietly. "They _did_."

Aramis closed his eyes. D'Artagnan was right.

And that was another heavy weight to live with.

The door creaked open and he looked over to see Porthos and Athos had returned.

D'Artagnan leaped to his feet. "What happened?"

"The Duke is going to sign the treaty, and then hopefully depart as soon as possible," Athos reported.

Aramis frowned. That was it?

"What about the massacre and the Cardinal?" d'Artagnan pressed impatiently.

Porthos let out a loud chuff. "Yeah, they were almost at each other's throats there fer a minute. Then Athos basically challenged the Duke to a duel to settle it."

"He was the one who demanded satisfaction first," Athos put in blandly. "I merely presented him with the opportunity to try."

Aramis gaped at his friend in disbelief.

Porthos snorted. "Yeah. Athos thrashed him. An' they'd decided not to duel to the death, but the winner decided whether the Duke was gonna sign the treaty or not."

Athos turned sober eyes to Aramis. "I'm sorry we can't get you and the other musketeers justice."

Aramis gave himself a small shake. "We're soldiers," he finally said. "We follow our orders no matter where they lead. Justice was never part of the arrangement."

"It should be," Athos said seriously. "But in any case, hopefully the Duke will abandon any vendetta against you personally."

Aramis's stomach churned at the thought.

"So, that's it?" d'Artagnan asked.

"Yes," Athos replied.

Aramis honestly didn't know how he felt about it all. Hopefully it would get easier once the Duke was back in Savoy.

He pushed himself up and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

"Whoa, where do you think yer goin'?" Porthos exclaimed, rushing forward to grip his arm. D'Artagnan grabbed his other one.

"I need to get up," he said adamantly.

"You need ta rest."

Aramis shook his head. "There's something I need to do." The small cough that punched its way up didn't lend support to his state. "Besides, I need to move around some," he added. "So the water in my lungs doesn't settle too much and cause pneumonia."

Porthos's eyes widened with new worry, which Aramis felt only slightly guilty for causing. But he wasn't lying when he said moving around would help. It just wasn't going to be very comfortable.

Giving in, Porthos and d'Artagnan helped Aramis into his boots and then to his feet. Walking was indeed laborious but he doggedly made his way out of the infirmary into the yard.

"Can't it wait until tomorrow?" Athos asked, eyeing him sharply as his breaths started to wheeze slightly.

Aramis shook his head.

The dragons were outside and Rhaego immediately scampered over, whimpering worriedly as he sniffed Aramis's hair.

Aramis patted his muzzle. "You found me, didn't you?" He didn't remember much of his rescue, but doubted the others would have found him so quickly without Rhaego's tracking skills.

The russet dragon dipped his head lower, and Aramis pressed their foreheads together. "Thank you."

After a moment, he straightened and used Rhaego as a crutch as he slowly made his way across the yard and out a side door into a field—the Musketeer cemetery. It was a small plot of land, but filled all too soon in its early days with twenty fallen brothers in arms and a marker with the names of Aramis's and Marsac's dragons.

Aramis stood in front of the rows, grieving the loss all over again. The pain would never fully go away, but Aramis felt his brothers step close, silent yet supportive. He was not alone. No matter what, they would help him carry these burdens whenever they became too much for him to bear. There was still room in his heart to love again.

Because he'd survived. And he owed it to the lost ones to _live_.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT TIME
> 
> In the forests of Savoy, one dragon gives her all to save her rider. And his brothers have to pick up the pieces.


End file.
